Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 40 1834.pdf/24



Bring from the grove an orange-bough, To fan my cheek, to cool my brow, And bind it, mother! on my breast, When I am laid in dreamless rest.

The myrtle that I loved hath died, Blighted, like me, in vernal pride! The rose looks all too festive now,— Bring from the grove an orange-bough!

The grove along the sunny shore, Whose odours I must breathe no more, Oh! love's vain sighs, and parting prayer, And wild farewell, are lingering there.

Then bear me thence one branch, to shed Life's last faint sweetness round my bed; One branch, with pearly blossoms drest, And bind it, mother! on my breast!